nick.’
This would, in fact, have been unlikely. For a start there was hardly more than a couple of quid in there, and more importantly, the belt itself was gruesome. Maggie’s niece had made it for me back in Year 9, when the official school purse belt – a freaky item worn only by the socially inept – became too small even on its longest setting. We had a row about it. Poll said it was safest to carry your money on your person. I said what about pockets, but she pointed out that I was always poking my fingers through mine till they were all in holes. So Maggie had this mega-belt run up for me in navy, a school colour, and I’ve been wearing it ever since. Glamorous it is not, but it is handy, though I’d rather have pulled my own tongue out than admit this to Poll.
I panted back along the undercroft and up the wide stairs to the hall. I plunged in through the swing doors and stopped dead. The details of the scene flashed up and burned themselves on my brain forever.
At the far end of the hall the gigantic red and gold organ pipes rising in asymmetrical slopes to the hammer-beam ceiling. In front of them, the wooden stage with its lonely lectern, and formal seating at each side for visitors. Then, below and stretching towards me, ranks of wicker-bottomed chairs that squeaked on the parquet when you sat down.
All of it I knew, I’d seen before in a thousand years’ worth of assemblies and speech days: but never with this detail in the window.
Unbelievable, at first. Two girls framed in the tall stone-arched window on my immediate right, where the chairs gave way to the rows of candidates’ desks. Donna French, Donna French and Nicky Hunter, in slim profile, touching. They were standing face to face, belly to belly, in what looked like an embrace; laughing in a stifled, secret way.
They jumped in shock at my entrance and again at the bang of the door behind me, but, weirdly, they remained clinging together.
‘Oh!’ cried Donna, her face a mixture of dismay and hilarity.
Nicky let out a shriek and turned her head away towards the windowpane. Donna put her arms behind her back and dropped her eyes to the floor. I saw them arch their backs simultaneously, their willowy bodies curve apart like an Art Nouveau design, but I still didn’t understand. Then there was a small thud and my purse belt, which had been around the two of them, hit the wooden floor.
Released, the two girls moved apart, Nicky giggling with embarrassment. She still had her face turned from me but I could clearly see her reflection in the glass. Her eyes were wide with horror and she was grinning stupidly.
I just stood there like a lump. Donna moved first, bent down and picked up the belt. Nicky took this as her cue to slide out and make a run for it.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Donna, holding the belt out to me. She was trying not to snigger though at least she’d had the grace to blush. ‘I was going to hand it—’
We both heard Nicky’s far-off snort of laughter, and Donna’s self-control dissolved. She flung the belt on the table nearest and stalked out. As the door bumped shut behind her, the belt slithered off the varnished surface, buckle end first, and fell in a coil. It lay there like a dead snake, with me hating it.
*
He’d first spoken to me half a year before, under the horse-chestnut trees. A day like summer, although it wasn’t. We were the new Upper Sixth; lords of the playing fields, monarchs of the benches. ‘Come and see this,’ he shouted as I walked past, nose in a book. When I looked up he was perched on the back of the Wasserman Memorial Seat, huge shoes planted on the slats. Even as I swooned I thought, someone’ll sit there, in all that mud he’s wiped across it.
I approached warily, in case he hadn’t meant me at all.
‘What are you reading?’ He took the book out of my grip and scanned the cover. ‘ Mansfield Park ? Looks a bit old.’ He shaded his eyes and smiled, though it wasn’t a straight
This would, in fact, have been unlikely. For a start there was hardly more than a couple of quid in there, and more importantly, the belt itself was gruesome. Maggie’s niece had made it for me back in Year 9, when the official school purse belt – a freaky item worn only by the socially inept – became too small even on its longest setting. We had a row about it. Poll said it was safest to carry your money on your person. I said what about pockets, but she pointed out that I was always poking my fingers through mine till they were all in holes. So Maggie had this mega-belt run up for me in navy, a school colour, and I’ve been wearing it ever since. Glamorous it is not, but it is handy, though I’d rather have pulled my own tongue out than admit this to Poll.
I panted back along the undercroft and up the wide stairs to the hall. I plunged in through the swing doors and stopped dead. The details of the scene flashed up and burned themselves on my brain forever.
At the far end of the hall the gigantic red and gold organ pipes rising in asymmetrical slopes to the hammer-beam ceiling. In front of them, the wooden stage with its lonely lectern, and formal seating at each side for visitors. Then, below and stretching towards me, ranks of wicker-bottomed chairs that squeaked on the parquet when you sat down.
All of it I knew, I’d seen before in a thousand years’ worth of assemblies and speech days: but never with this detail in the window.
Unbelievable, at first. Two girls framed in the tall stone-arched window on my immediate right, where the chairs gave way to the rows of candidates’ desks. Donna French, Donna French and Nicky Hunter, in slim profile, touching. They were standing face to face, belly to belly, in what looked like an embrace; laughing in a stifled, secret way.
They jumped in shock at my entrance and again at the bang of the door behind me, but, weirdly, they remained clinging together.
‘Oh!’ cried Donna, her face a mixture of dismay and hilarity.
Nicky let out a shriek and turned her head away towards the windowpane. Donna put her arms behind her back and dropped her eyes to the floor. I saw them arch their backs simultaneously, their willowy bodies curve apart like an Art Nouveau design, but I still didn’t understand. Then there was a small thud and my purse belt, which had been around the two of them, hit the wooden floor.
Released, the two girls moved apart, Nicky giggling with embarrassment. She still had her face turned from me but I could clearly see her reflection in the glass. Her eyes were wide with horror and she was grinning stupidly.
I just stood there like a lump. Donna moved first, bent down and picked up the belt. Nicky took this as her cue to slide out and make a run for it.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Donna, holding the belt out to me. She was trying not to snigger though at least she’d had the grace to blush. ‘I was going to hand it—’
We both heard Nicky’s far-off snort of laughter, and Donna’s self-control dissolved. She flung the belt on the table nearest and stalked out. As the door bumped shut behind her, the belt slithered off the varnished surface, buckle end first, and fell in a coil. It lay there like a dead snake, with me hating it.
*
He’d first spoken to me half a year before, under the horse-chestnut trees. A day like summer, although it wasn’t. We were the new Upper Sixth; lords of the playing fields, monarchs of the benches. ‘Come and see this,’ he shouted as I walked past, nose in a book. When I looked up he was perched on the back of the Wasserman Memorial Seat, huge shoes planted on the slats. Even as I swooned I thought, someone’ll sit there, in all that mud he’s wiped across it.
I approached warily, in case he hadn’t meant me at all.
‘What are you reading?’ He took the book out of my grip and scanned the cover. ‘ Mansfield Park ? Looks a bit old.’ He shaded his eyes and smiled, though it wasn’t a straight
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